


Sickdays 4.0 Day 2: The Good Samaritan

by occasionalspiderfiction (SemiRetiredAuthor), sickficlurker (SemiRetiredAuthor)



Series: Peter Needs a Spider-Sitter [2]
Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bruises, Concussions, Gen, Head Injury, Hiding Medical Issues, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Loose Interpretation of Prompts, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Vomiting, Whump, emeto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-20 23:25:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13728231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SemiRetiredAuthor/pseuds/occasionalspiderfiction, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SemiRetiredAuthor/pseuds/sickficlurker
Summary: Continuation of Some Regrets. New York loves Spider-Man, but it couldn't care less about Peter Parker.





	Sickdays 4.0 Day 2: The Good Samaritan

**Author's Note:**

> You can read this standalone if you want, though I'd recommend Some Regrets first since this is intended to read as a short series!

Peter can’t hold back a groan when he wakes up. He has vague memories that suggest falling mid-swing, but everything is jumbled and confusing.

He certainly _feels_ like he fell mid-swing. A sharp headache pounds away mid-forehead where he can’t ignore it no matter how hard he tries. He’s pretty sure the dull ache in his side is his ribs and that scares him. He’s never broken a rib. Is this what that feels like? Or is he just bruised? He’d heard of people bruising ribs before. Is it something worse? What if he destroyed his liver or something else important when he fell?

Maybe the nausea never fully disappeared or maybe the panic brought it back, but Peter doesn’t especially want it making things worse, so he tries to calm down. He could… He could do something about this. He didn’t know what yet, but he told himself he could handle this. It’s just an everyday superhero issue. Mr. Stark probably deals with it all the time. He can do this.

After the name crosses his mind, he contemplates calling Mr. Stark but… he only met the guy two months ago. Now’s not the time to make him think that he can’t take care of basic injuries on his own. There’s something distinctly sad about going through this alone, but sad is okay. Sad’s better than panicking.

He remembers not being able to stand earlier. “When?” is a good question, but not one he’s going to prioritize. Instead, he braces himself against his wall-turned-pillow and slowly pulls himself to his feet. He considers it a victory when his headache worsens and his vision wavers but doesn’t deteriorate to the point of not being able to stay standing. He supports himself with an arm along the wall for a few quiet minutes, punctuated only by his own somewhat heavy breathing.

When the world stills and looks roughly as it should, he takes a tentative step away from the wall. So far, so good. He takes a few more steps for good measure. When he finds himself functioning well enough after that, he heads for the wall again and shoots a web to move to the next building. A short, “Here goes nothing!” is all he allows himself before he’s jumping into a swing.

He regrets it now that he’s soaring through the air with the pain in his side stabbing more harshly. He’s proud that he manages to limit himself to one shocked yelp and a whimper. There’s a shorter building nearby, and he makes a beeline for it. He shudders at his only remaining option, but scaling down the wall would at least be a more controlled pain than swinging home. He cringes before he flips over the wall, letting himself drop a fair few feet before he grabs on and sticks. He tries to hold most of his weight with his feet, but he can’t completely avoid using the arm that pulls at his ribs. It’s a slow descent as he pauses every few seconds to give his tender side a break, but he makes it to the ground. He’s immediately assaulted by a bystander.

“Spider-Man!” He gets that the guy is excited, but the yelling isn’t doing any favors for his head. “Are you okay!? Do you need help!?”

He shakes his head vigorously, but he knows he didn’t sell it well when even that makes him dizzy enough to stagger toward the stranger. The man catches him and holds on. He knows it’s meant to be comforting, but honestly, it’s just making him panic more. When a forearm brushes against his side, he yelps and leaps back far enough to keep the guy at bay. In his defense, the man looks surprised that he hurt him and immediately apologizes.

“I’m working on my medical degree. I can help if you’re hurt.” Peter almost laughs. They both know he’s hurt.

Maybe it’s in his best interest, but he doesn’t want to trust a random stranger on the street, no matter how well-meaning they seem. It’s hard to duck out of the man’s way, but he manages it. He feels like he should explain, but he honestly doesn’t feel like making excuses to some random dude. He’s in pain, he’s tired, and he just wants to sneak into the apartment, take a large dose of painkillers, and rest up so he can heal before Aunt May sees him because he _really_ can’t pin this on bullies. He can’t grasp how to verbally respond, so he tries for a friendly wave instead as he backs up the way he was going. Walking backwards isn’t as easy as it should be, and he stumbles through a half-turn so he can start walking normally again.

He passes a few more well-meaning bystanders. One even goes as far as grabbing his upper arm to keep him from moving on, but Peter shakes the hands off and brushes away the concern with a fast, “Thanks, but I’m fine!” He wonders if he’s convincing anyone though. He certainly isn’t convincing himself.

He needs people to stop offering to help him. He appreciates the most likely intentions, but it doesn’t change the fact that any of them _could_ be trying to take advantage of his weakened state to reveal his identity. There were other heroes who kept secret identities, but New York was used to the likes of the Avengers, people who didn’t mind being open about their civilian alter egos. Citizens were still way too curious about Spider-Man’s identity, but maybe he could get home unbothered as Peter Parker.

It’s hard to keep track of who’s watching him as he makes his way to where he stored his clothes. He usually swings through the city or runs, and no one is really willing to put in the physical effort to keep up then. He can walk backwards to make sure nobody’s following, but that’s difficult in his state and makes him stumble more. He can keep twisting his head to look side to side and over his shoulder, but that brings the dizziness back with a vengeance. He has to lean against a wall to will the world into staying still again. He tries to play it cool, but he can almost feel the pressure on his back from the concerned looks he’s drawing. Spider-Man isn’t exactly known for standing still in the streets; everyone knows he’s a pretty hyper superhero with a penchant for heights, always in motion unless he’s taking a break with a view from the top of a twenty-story building. Eventually, he feels like he can handle walking again. This time, he doesn’t try to keep an eye on who’s following him as he walks.

He reaches his alley and takes his time to get a full three-sixty of the area. When he ducks further into the alley, only one person is still looking at them. He stares back, which is apparently unnerving enough to get them to shrug and move on. He waits another minute to make sure no one else was waiting to slip into the alley behind him. When it’s all clear, he grabs his backpack—though not without stifling a gag at the smell when he has to get up close and personal with the dumpster it’s webbed to—and retrieves his clothes.

It takes longer than usual to peel off the suit and pull on the clothes, and boy, does he have some impressive bruises right where the pain in his side is centered. The front of his mask is covered in blood. It makes it easier to understand why so many people were stopping him before. It’s already dirty anyway, so he uses the cleaner parts of the mask to mop any other blood off his face. It pulls uncomfortably at his side when he tries to lift his arm to pull on the t-shirt he had on under his button-up, so he opts to toss the t-shirt back in his bag. The button-up is sort of scratchy, but scratchy was better than having to lift his arm again. It’s a small ordeal to lift his backpack. He ends up swinging it over just one shoulder before he leaves his alley.

He tries to shuffle through a few different alleys every couple days to keep people from finding and stealing his bag over and over again. Today’s was an early discovery—across the street from Delmar’s—and he thanks past Peter for choosing the one closest to his apartment. He’s honestly not sure if he would’ve gotten all the way home if he’d picked one of the further options. But six blocks? He feels up to that much.

Unlike earlier, he notices the signs of the next round of vomiting coming on before the last minute, which is… nice? And yet it’s not because what can possibly seem nice while his stomach pangs with white hot nausea and his mouth floods with saliva? He stumbles back to the alley he just left and makes it to an unguarded trash can that he white knuckles and hovers over as the nausea continues crashing over him.

He still remembers being uncomfortable and upset earlier, but it’s easier this time. One sudden heave sends him leaning further over the bin and he’s immediately vomiting with a strangled sound that he can’t hold back. He has a moment to breathe before he retches once and heaves more quietly the second time. When it’s over, he tries to spit away the acidic taste that remains in his mouth and is partially successful. He uses a sleeve to wipe away the sweat he just noticed on his brow.

“God, fuckin’ drunks,” someone mutters as they pass by. He wasn’t meant to hear the comment, but super hearing did that to a guy. Tears prick at his eyes for the umpteenth time that day. He keeps his gaze to the ground and internally berates himself for being so bad at this. He doesn’t even know what exactly he means by “this.” Caring for wounds? Being a hero? Existing in general?

He wonders how the same population that was so eager to help Spider-Man can totally ignore—and he hates to describe himself this way—a beat-up kid wandering the streets. It’s like he’s seen the best and worst of New Yorkers in just one evening.

He thinks about how tired he is and drags his feet leaving the alley. It’s less than a five-minute walk home on a good day, but it takes him longer. He didn’t think to check the time on his phone when he started the walk, but he notices the spectacular sunset over the city skyline has faded into dusk when he arrives at his apartment complex. It’s nice to have the sun out of his eyes. He’d felt a headache building before, but the darkness soothes some of the pain.

Unless he was mixing up the schedule—and it’s entirely possible with the way his head feels—May should already be home. That eliminated the front door route. He’d walked right past her with injuries before, but he’d never had to hide what he was pretty sure was a mild concussion. He hasn’t even had a chance to look closely at himself to see the damage. For all he know, his face was still streaked with blood he’d missed during cleanup. Maybe he could play it off, but he thinks being on the safe side is a better idea. He slips around to their side of the building and scales it until he hits his floor.

He slips through the window and onto the ceiling, inching his way across the room through the dizziness. It’s not too hard to toe the door closed from his position on the ceiling, even with the world spinning again. He clumsily drops into a heap on the floor. He closes his eyes and thinks he’d be content to stay there forever until a slightly delayed crash from behind him pulls him out of the fantasy. He flops awkwardly around on the floor to avoid jostling his side until he finds Ned sitting on his bottom bunk. They have an unintentional staring contest.

“Uhhhh… you didn’t… see that?” he slurs.

“You were on the _ceiling_ ,” Ned gasps in a hushed tone.

Peter takes a few seconds too long to answer.

“Yeah.” Something tells him this is serious, but that doesn’t seem to translate to his mouth and he giggles, flooded with relief at seeing his friend instead of being alone and in pain. “I’m… sticky. Stick to stuff… Like a spider!” He giggles again. Ned looks torn between shock and concern.

“Are you like _high_ or something?” he whispers in case May is nearby. Peter hums.

“No?” It’s a question, but Ned has confidence Peter wouldn’t lie to him so he assumes something else is the matter. Peter can’t find the right words to describe what’s wrong so he just lifts his shirt instead.

Ned is confused until he takes a step closer and realizes it’s not a shadow along Peter’s right side but a giant reddish-purple bruise spanning most of his rib cage.

“I fell? Web…? building… ugh, hurts.” Peter’s still speaking with the same slur and questioning lilt, not even stringing together full sentences, but at least Ned has an explanation for the horrifyingly large bruise. Ned can’t claim to fully understand what happened or what’s wrong. What he can see is that his friend isn’t functioning at a hundred percent or making good judgment calls, considering that he’s given Ned enough clues to be pretty damn sure he’s best friends with Spider-Man.

“Okay, okay, you’re completely out of it, dude,” Ned frantically says. He doesn’t know how much May knows. He jumps on the first plan that pops into his head. “I don’t think you want May to see you like this? We have to get you out of here. Is there any way you can crawl out the window and hide downstairs?”

Peter whines from the back of his throat but nods slightly. Ned doesn’t think he looks completely sure of himself, but it’s all they have to go on.

Peter finally decides to lock his bedroom door and sets off on a slow trip interspersed with the occasional stumble around the room to collect clothes and toiletries. Ned helps by taking everything Peter grabs and packing it neatly in his backpack. Even with two people, it’s slow going, but Ned finally guides Peter out the window with the bag—“Make sure no one sees you!”—and takes one last glance to make sure his friend is gone before he unlocks the door and eases it open.

“Hey, Mrs. P! I’m sorry, I completely forgot we were supposed to meet at _my_ place! I’ll just be going now, bye!”

Well, that was the easy part. Next came the real work.

**Author's Note:**

> It was kind of a struggle to find motivation to write this part, so I'm taking a short break to work on a one-shot or two before I write the final part for this series. I just need to focus on something I'm more excited to write for a bit!


End file.
